


Though Lovers Be Lost

by panharmonium



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:10:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panharmonium/pseuds/panharmonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they tell stories about his life, will they speak of loss or love?  You cannot have one without the other, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though Lovers Be Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mosmorde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosmorde/gifts).



> When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,  
> They shall have stars at elbow and foot;  
> Though they go mad they shall be sane,  
> Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;  
> Though lovers be lost love shall not;  
> And death shall have no dominion.
> 
> \- dylan thomas

“What’s this now?” Ali Alaan murmurs into the dark, scooping up a small child from the cluster of other sleeping younglings in the crèche.  “Awake at this hour?”  
  
“Master,” Obi-Wan Kenobi whispers urgently, politely deferent to the needs of his fellow sleepers despite his obvious distress.  “Master Alaan, I had a dream.”  
  
Not a very nice one, Ali Alaan supposes.  “Tell me,” he says calmly, stepping with care over the row of sleeping bodies and over to a window.  “What did you dream about?”  
  
Obi-Wan bites his lip, round face tight with concentration.  “The _Dark_ , master.  It’s coming to take me.  It’s going to get inside me.  I saw.”  
  
Ali Alaan shifts Obi-Wan’s weight in his arms, turning to give the Human child a view of the familiar Coruscant lights outside the window.  “The Dark is not like that,” the crechemaster says firmly.  “It is not a thinking, living thing like you are.  It cannot take you anywhere, unless you are willing to go.  And it cannot get inside you unless you invite it.”  
  
“But master, what if – what if I invited it...accidentally?”  
  
Ali Alaan chuckles.  “Are you planning to _accidentally_ descend into Darkness, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”  
  
Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose.  “I can’t _plan_ to have an accident, master.”  
  
Ali Alaan hides his smile.  “No, of course you cannot.  In any case, that is why you have masters here, child.  Because we are all very old and very brilliant, of course, and for the most part very capable of predicting your “accidents” before they occur.”  
  
“So...”  Obi-Wan fights a yawn, futilely.  “So you will make sure I don’t have a very bad one and do a Dark thing.”  
  
“Until you are old enough to make sure of that yourself.  Yes.”  
  
Obi-Wan props his chin up on the crechemaster’s shoulder.  “That’s all right, then,” he murmurs, satisfied.  “Thank you, master.”  
  
“It is my pleasure to serve,” Ali Alaan intones wryly, but he is speaking to himself, for all of his young charges are once again fast asleep. 

*****

Tahl always knows who is on the other side of her door before she opens it.    
  
“Obi-Wan,” she says with some surprise, and inwardly shakes her head at the awe that still rolls off this child whenever he sees her identify a silent visitor with such ease.  “What’s the trouble, young one?”  
  
“Oh.  Erm.  Nothing, master.”  
  
Unfortunately for him, his reluctance to elaborate is precisely what gives away the nature of the problem.  She cups his chin in one hand, feeling the flush that has spread across his skin.  “Oh, Obi-Wan,” she sighs.  “Haven’t you learned by now?  You both always come round in the end.”  
  
She senses him fidget from foot to foot.  “May I take tea with you, master?”

 “You may,” she decides magnanimously, releasing him.  “And then you will go straight home and sort out whatever stubbornness-induced trouble has set you to roaming the corridors.  Is that clear?”    
  
Obi-Wan hesitates, but would never dream of contradicting her.  “Yes, master.”  
  
“No more wandering the halls like a stray akk.”  
  
“Yes, master.”  
  
“Go on inside now.”  
  
“Yes, Master Tahl.”  He scurries in under her outstretched arm.  
  
_What a pair of stubborn children,_ she thinks, closing the door behind him – but then, has she ever loved any pair of stubborn children more completely?

*****

“Master.  This is...this is just... _urgh_ , master.  This is _wretched_.”  
  
Qui-Gon does not even glance back at his apprentice, whose uncharacteristic complaining has reached truly unbecoming levels of agitation.  It’s not that Qui-Gon disagrees with the sentiments, exactly – hiking through the city’s sewage system in search of a dispossessed underground population is not how he would have elected to spend this particular evening, either – but Obi-Wan, like all Jedi, will have to endure far worse things in years to come, and with far fewer sympathetic listeners.  
  
Even as the thought crosses Qui-Gon’s mind, he hears a steady stream of softly murmured _“ick, ick, ick”_ emanating from somewhere behind him.    
  
He resists the urge to sigh.  “Obi-Wan, how old are you?” he asks pointedly.  
  
“Too old for _this_ ,” the fourteen year-old boy growls.  “ _Ugh_.  Who would ever even consider living down here?”  
  
“An open mind breeds wisdom,” Qui-Gon reminds him, for the hundredth time.  Thousandth time?  Ah, well.  That is the master’s lot, after all, and he has no doubt that Obi-Wan _will_ learn, eventually.  It is early days yet, for the two of them.

“An open _anything_ here breeds _disease_ , master,” Obi-Wan states.  “This is beyond unsanitary.  I am certain I will never be clean again.”  
  
“I am certain you are wrong,” Qui-Gon says mildly.    
  
They trek forward without speaking for a while, the silence broken only by the sound of liquids that would probably best remain unidentified splashing about their knees.    
  
“My braid is a mess,” Obi-Wan mutters eventually.  
  
Qui-Gon resigns himself to a brief pause, and sloshes over to him.  This is a different kind of complaint, one borne of a more real, underlying upset than mere irritation at their unenviable situation.  Obi-Wan’s devotion to tradition is endearing, bespeaking a deep love for the Path they walk, but the boy still has much to learn about the ultimate irrelevance of outer symbols in comparison with inner truth.  Bringing his apprentice to a halt in the dark tunnel by means of a gentle pressure against his shoulder, Qui-Gon fingers the learner’s braid carefully.  He has to admit that Obi-Wan has a point.  Much of the thin plait is plastered over with muck, and more than half of the strands have come loose, tangling and fraying and sticking together in altogether unattractive clumps.  
  
“Well," Qui-Gon says with a rueful quirk of the mouth.  "You’re not wrong.”  On impulse, he cards one broad hand affectionately through his apprentice’s filthy hair, and then gives Obi-Wan a little nudge forward.  “We will wash and rebraid you properly when this mission is over.  I give you my word.”  
  
Obi-Wan lets out a long-suffering sigh, but Qui-Gon feels a great chunk of his anxiety dissolve into the Force.  “Fine.  But if I should lose a marker thread in this muck, I am not going diving for it.”  
  
“Far be it from me to dream of asking you for such a sacrifice,” Qui-Gon remarks dryly.

*****

“So,” Garen says, crossing his ankles in front of him on the couch.  “You're Coruscant-bound.”  
  
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, trying to keep any trace of wistfulness out of his voice.  “Anakin is too far behind...I doubt we’ll be doing much beyond the regular Temple course cycles for a year or two.”  
  
Siri, curled up neatly on one of his meditation cushions, winces sympathetically.   To her, the idea of being trapped in the Temple for any length of time, rather than Out There _doing_ something, is sheer anathema.  Reeft, on the other hand, seems to accept the news with his typical good humor.  They could probably all take a lesson in equanimity from him.  
  
At the moment, though, he is edging nervously away from the arm of the couch.  “My friend,” he interjects anxiously.  “This plant –”  
  
“I know,” Obi-Wan groans, hurrying to help.  “I’m sorry.  I think – _uff_ – ” he tries to pull the heavy pot and its probing tentacles further away from his friend, but his small quarters don’t afford many options for re-positioning.  “I think it must be in need of a pruning, or something.  But I really don’t...honestly, how am I supposed to know?  I ask you.”  
  
“Ask Master Khad-ra,” Siri suggests.  “He’ll be thrilled.”    
  
Obi-Wan lets out his breath in an explosive huff.  “Oh, certainly.  Until he discovers that this particular specimen is dreadfully invasive, or endangered, or protected by Galactic Law – ”  
  
Reeft eyes his would-be botanical attacker with newfound curiosity.  “Is it?”  
  
Obi-Wan shakes his head in exasperation.  “I don’t know.  Probably.”  
  
“Okay, Obi, but look at it this way,” Garen says, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation.  “Sure, you’re going to be stuck on-planet for a year or two.  But that’s two years of sleeping in a real bed – “  
  
“ – eating real food – ”  
  
“Yes, thank you Reeft – hanging around with people who generally aren’t trying to kill you – ”  
  
“ – except in the dojo – ”  
  
“ _Thank you_ , Siri – and generally having a nice, relaxing time.”  Garen shrugs.  “You’ve been running around for years.  It’ll be like a little break, you know?”  
  
Anakin, predictably, chooses that precise moment to stumble into the apartment, tumbling in through the door with a clatter.  Bolts and gears and washers tumble from his armful of mechanical bits and pieces in a shower of clanging silver confetti, and he staggers into the living area with a sort of attempted apology.  “Sorry – uff, I mean, sorry masters, sorry, Obi-Wan – whoops – ”  He yanks at a coil of spring hooked into the hem of his pants, loses his balance and hops until he can regain his footing, bumping into the low table and knocking a meditation cushion aside.  “Ah! – I mean _Master_ Obi-Wan, sorry; 'scuse me.”   And he disappears into his room with a clatter.  
  
Silence reigns for a long moment.  Obi-Wan eyes Garen darkly.  “I’m sorry.  You were saying?”  
  
Garen looks about ready to eat his words.  “From...a certain point of view?” he tries.  
  
Siri throws back her head and guffaws.  
  
Obi-Wan just points to the door.  “Out.”

*****

Nobody wants to spar with him anymore.  

Of all the side effects he had imagined would be spawned by the all-too-recent debacle on Naboo, the stares and whispers are expected.  The nickname is grating.    
  
But this?  
  
This is _insufferable_.  All Obi-Wan wants to do (and it is an unworthy desire, he knows, but it _is_ his desire nonetheless and he _cannot_ simply expel it; he has tried and tried) – all he wants is to spend every waking moment in the dojo, being thrashed to within an inch of his life, because that is, so far, the only activity he has discovered that can prevent him from thinking too much, or _feeling_ anything at all.  Yet precisely when he needs an exhausting sparring match most, all the Temple folk seem to have become strangely wary of engaging him.  
  
All the _reasonable_ Temple folk, that is.  Quinlan Vos, on the other hand...  
  
Well.  Quinlan Vos might be just a little bit cracked.  
  
“I thought you said you wanted to spar, Kenobi!” Vos taunts, flipping away and landing hard, _bang_ , two feet striking the boards in perfect synchronization.  
  
Obi-Wan shakes sweat from his brow and flourishes his blade in an intricate pattern, a ferocious buzzing _come-here_ snap.  “I thought I had a worthy _partner_ , Vos.”  
  
Vos flashes his teeth in a grin and they fall to, emerald blades whirling exultantly.  Obi-Wan ducks a slash aimed at his head and snaps out a leg, catching his opponent low on the inside of his ankle, but the other man doesn’t miss a step, using the almost-stumble to spin and nearly singe Obi-Wan’s chin with an opportunistic backswing.  
  
“Are you trying to disfigure me?” Obi-Wan grunts.  
   
Vos slips deftly out of a bind.  “Trying to give you some _authority_ ,” he corrects.  “You’ll never get anything done with that baby face.  Tell me you’re growing your hair out.”  
  
Obi-Wan bares his teeth in a humorless grin.  “We’ll see,” he says, and launches himself into the air, an Ataru leap that carries him twisting in an arc over the other man's head, until he hits the ground behind Vos and slashes at his legs, Vos’s defensive hop leaving him unanchored and ripe for a Force-enhanced shove, and Obi-Wan _has_ him then, except suddenly there is an itch at the back of his mind, a signature that looks like heat-shimmers and double suns, and he can't help but turn to check and then Quinlan Vos’s booted foot slams into his unprotected temple.  
  
Stars erupt across his field of vision, and he actually crashes to one knee before remembering to wheeze out “ _Sola!”_   Distantly, he thinks he can hear Vos laughing.  “You miserable mynock-kisser.”    
  
Vos slaps him good-naturedly on the shoulder.  “Little ears,” he warns under his breath, and Obi-Wan holds his tongue, pushing himself up and beckoning to his very young apprentice, who is hovering in the doorframe.    
  
“You found the dojo,” Obi-Wan gasps out, catching his breath.  “Well done.”  
  
“I only got lost once,” Anakin says, but his attention is mostly focused on the yellow-tattooed Jedi behind Obi-Wan.    
  
Obi-Wan steps aside, massaging his temple.  “Anakin Skywalker, this is Master Quinlan Vos.  He is a friend of mine.”  
  
Anakin eyes the Jedi who had just kicked his master in the face somewhat mutinously, but Vos smiles easily at him, sauntering over to the boy and offering a hand to shake.  “Pleased to meet you, Padawan.”  
  
Anakin accepts the handshake, eyes traveling over Vos’s tattoos with budding interest.  “Pleased to meet you too, sir,” he says.  “Master, I mean.”  
  
Vos jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Obi-Wan.  “Is he being good to you?” he asks Anakin severely, directing a mock stern look at Obi-Wan.    
  
Anakin nods vigorously.  “Sure!” he says.  “He’s teaching me all kinds of stuff.  And he’s gonna teach me all _that_ stuff - ” he gestures out to the middle of the dojo, indicating where Vos and Obi-Wan had been sparring, “ - too.  He says if I get my other lessons done we can start soon.”  
  
“One-on-one saber instruction with Master Kenobi?  Force.  You poor child,” Vos mourns, shaking his head.  “Best of luck to you, Anakin Skywalker.”  He tosses Obi-Wan a cheeky salute by means of farewell, and disappears into the showers.  
  
Anakin looks up at Obi-Wan.  “What’d he mean by that?”  
  
Obi-Wan hastens Anakin to the door.  “Nothing, Anakin.”

*****

Obi-Wan pushes his plate away with a satisfied sigh.  He already knows he’s going to pay for this copious consumption of questionable-quality food later, but he had been aware of that coming in.  It’s not like he really comes for the physical nourishment, anyhow.  
  
“Where’s the Tadpole?” Dex rumbles, contentedly stretching two arms out over the back of the booth bench behind him.    
  
“In class,” Obi-Wan says, gaze wandering towards the window.  “He hates that nickname, you know.”  
  
Dex grins widely, displaying rows of chunky teeth.  “Ain’t it a shame.  Tell him when he puts on some height I’ll give him a new one.”  
  
Obi-Wan smiles, staring out at the street.  The early rush of commuters has dissipated, and CoCo town has fallen into a more sedate rhythm, morning sun filling up the Strip with a golden glow.  The soft play of light and shadow paints an altogether soothing scene, and Obi-Wan represses the urge to sink back into the cushioned bench.  Dex already knows he is tired.  No need to belabor the point.  
  
Outside, a lone gartro swoops past the window, a zip of green darting across the sun-drenched Strip.  “You never gave me a nickname,” Obi-Wan remarks absently.  
  
Dex snorts, and Obi-Wan stares at him.  “Not that _you_ know of,” the Besalisk says.  
  
Obi-Wan feels a tiny spark of mirth ignite inside him, in defiance of his melancholy mood.  “On second thought, I don’t think I want to know.”  
  
“Nah,” Dex agrees good-naturedly.  “You don’t.”

*****

A salmon-colored head bursts through the surface of the artificial river, scattering a shower of sparkling water droplets in every direction.  
  
“Come in?” Bant offers, smiling up at Obi-Wan.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan responds from the verdant shoreline, returning her grin.  “But I have someone here who might like to take you up on that offer at some point.”  He puts both hands on Anakin’s shoulders and draws the boy better into Bant’s field of view.  
  
Bant’s face brightens further.  “Hello, Anakin.”  
  
“Hi, Master Eerin,” Anakin echoes softly, and drops his gaze to the grass.  Obi-Wan keeps two reassuring hands on Anakin’s shoulders.  Anakin is absolutely smitten with Bant, has been since the moment he’d met her – something about her puts him at ease, which surprises Obi-Wan not a whit – but Obi-Wan has set him an important task today, and the boy’s nerves are getting the better of him.  
  
“Anakin would like to request something from you, Master Eerin,” Obi-Wan prompts, with a little wink at Bant - the two of them had discussed this earlier.  
  
Bant bobs in the river’s artificial current.  “Of course,” she agrees generously, with an encouraging nod in Anakin’s direction.  
  
Obi-Wan gives Anakin’s shoulders a slight nudge.    
  
“Oh!” Anakin says.  “Oh.  Um, Master Eerin?  Master says you’re wizard at swimming.”  
  
“I am at that,” she says.  “Better than he is, anyway.”  
  
The gentle joke seems to buoy Anakin’s confidence a bit.  “And um, I don’t really know how to do it yet.  And Master said he was gonna teach me but then he thought of you and that maybe you might be able to help because you’re so good at it.  And so he said I should ask you if you would maybe um...help me learn?”  
  
Obi-Wan gives Anakin another little prod, and Anakin starts, remembering to drop into a polite bow.  “Sometime.  If you have time, I mean.”  
  
Bant’s silvery eyes, dancing with mirth, meet Obi-Wan’s over Anakin’s bowed head.  “Well, certainly!” she says.  “I’d love to.  Master Kenobi is right – you ought to learn from the best, after all.”  
  
Anakin rises, beaming.  “Thank you!” he says.  “I learn really fast, master – I promise I’ll be good at it.”  
  
“I’m certain you will be,” she says.  “Now give your master a hug from me, if you please – I’m drenched.”    
  
Anakin hesitates momentarily, but there’s no defying a direct order, after all.

*****

When they finally dock on Phindar, Obi-Wan descends the ramp first, his apprentice treading closely on his heels and looking, perhaps, a little apprehensive about meeting these people to whom Obi-Wan has only ever referred as “old friends.”  
  
Guerra clasps his hand to his heart, staggering back across the landing platform as though he has been struck.  “Oh, me!” he cries.  “He is bringing his own little boy to us now.  You are getting old too fast, Obawan, no lie!”  
  
“So!” Paxxi echoes.  “We remember you when you were only so high, and Jedi-Gon so ridiculously tall – and now – well, now Obawan is still very small, I do not lie,” he says, smirking.  
  
“But not so small as this one!” Guerra exclaims, clapping both long arms down on a bewildered Anakin’s shoulders.    
  
“Guerra, Paxxi, this is my apprentice, Anakin Skywalker.  Anakin, meet Guerra and Paxxi Derida.”    
  
“Skywalking!” Guerra says gleefully.  “We have heard everything about you!  Not so, I lie – Obawan tells us nothing important at all!  But now you are both here and we shall see for ourselves, so!  Come, come, in the speeder, here.  Paxxi will drive.”  
  
Anakin shoots Obi-Wan a little look of alarm – he _had_ heard one or two stories about Paxxi’s long-ago crash landing on the Phindian home planet.  But Obi-Wan just gives him a reassuring smile and beckons him onward.  
  
At the door to the speeder, Paxxi gives “Skywalking” a little hand up over the side.  Guerra, meanwhile, flings his arms exuberantly around Obi-Wan.  
  
“We have not missed you even a little bit,” he states confidently.  
  
Obi-Wan grins at the tangle of arms wrapped around his midsection.  “...Not so?” he ventures.  
  
Guerra burst out into peals of laughter, and Obi-Wan can’t help but think that the sound of Phindians laughing might just be one of his favorite things in the galaxy, if Jedi are permitted to have such preferences.  
  
“True fact, my friend!” Guerra chuckles, and hugs him tighter.  “True fact indeed.”

*****

Padme feels a swell of pleasure at the sight of a familiar sweep of Jedi robes awaiting her outside the entrance to her Senate box.  “Master Kenobi,” she greets the esteemed Jedi, inclining her head to him graciously.  
  
“Senator.”  He returns the greeting with his customary bow, as the throng of beings exiting the Senate session pours past them like a river flowing around a stone.  She falls into step beside him, discarding the outermost layer of formality the same way she pulls off her heavy outer robe, slinging it over her arm with a sigh of relief.  “I have a message for you,” she says promptly.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“From Jar Jar.”  
  
“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, in a markedly different tone.  
  
Padme smothers a laugh.  “He said to tell you he can’t believe you were on Naboo not a month gone and didn’t even come to see him.”  
  
Obi-Wan’s face is a rare expressive mix, half-offended and half-embarrassed at the same time.  “What?" he sputters.   "Padme, you were _there_ – there was hardly time – ”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Had there been an opportunity, I most certainly would have paid him a visit.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“I like Jar Jar very much,” Obi-Wan says stubbornly.  
  
Padme shrugs.   
  
“I _do_ ,” he protests.  “I...respect him.  From a distance.”  
  
“Well, he’s here with me,” Padme informs him, dropping the other shoe with a smirk.  “Maybe you ought to come by tonight and make it up to him.”  
  
She wishes in that moment that she had thought to bring a holocamera with her, in order to better capture the hunted look that crosses Obi-Wan’s normally inscrutable face.    
  
“Oh,” he says.  “Oh, dear.  Well – tonight, hm, I’m not exactly sure...you see, I’m a bit busy – in fact, I’ve a previous engagement...”  
  
Padme raises one unburdened hand in a gesture of surrender.  “I’m not going to force you,” she says.  “Just don’t blame me when he comms you, at home, asking _why yousa no stoppen by._  
  
Obi-Wan chews on this in silence for a while, until they exit the Senate building into a bright, sunlit afternoon.  
  
“Well?” she prompts, pausing at the top of the Grand Stairway.  
  
“I just – oh, for stars' sake.”  Obi-Wan’s face takes on a haunted look.  “Padme - if only you understood how very many Jar Jars there have been in my life.”  
  
She just waits.  Eventually, Obi-Wan seems to lose some terrific internal battle, and draws himself up with as much dignity as he can muster.  “I will see you,” he says stiffly, “this evening.”  
  
“I can’t wait,” she says with a smile, and gives him a pat on the shoulder for his troubles.

*****

“Anakin Skywalker, stop that ridiculousness this instant and _sit_ _down_.”  
  
Anakin, who has been harassing the clone medic attempting to undress his wounded arm, snaps his mouth shut and plunks himself down onto a crate, then leaps up again as though he has sat on a needler crab, face turning bright red.  
  
From somewhere in the back of the LAAT/i comes a distinctly Rex-sounding snicker, and though Anakin trains a murderous stare on the cluster of clones filling the cramped space, the young Knight can’t quite make out the culprit.  
  
“For goodness’ sake, Anakin,” Obi-Wan scoffs, pulling him down again by the tabards.  “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”  
  
Anakin glares daggers at him.  “That was a dirty trick, master.”  
  
“That was not a trick; it was years of conditioning.  Now let me look at your arm.”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“I beg your pardon,” Obi-Wan says flatly, glancing around him as though confused.  “I thought I heard the sound of someone – a _Jedi_ , no less – debasing himself so far as to tell a blatant untruth.”  
  
“I don’t need you to look at it,” Anakin scowls.  “I’m not your – ”  
  
“ - Padawan anymore, you’re quite old enough to take care of yourself, you’re independent, unfettered, your own man, et cetera, ad infinitum.  I’m familiar with the speech.  You’re welcome to rehearse it again if you’d like, but if you’d be so good as to do so _while I look at that arm_ – ”  
  
It’s easier to just give Obi-Wan what he wants in these moods.  Anakin holds out the offending limb, and Obi-Wan starts to unwrap the makeshift dressing, careful hands providing a marked contrast to his acid tone.  
  
“Have you decided to go in for two mechno hands next?” Obi-Wan murmurs, below earshot of their clone companions.  
  
“No.”    
  
“Then stop giving Kasey a hard time when he is trying to help you.”  
  
“I only told him the same thing I just told you.”  
  
“Kasey, unlike me, does not have a degree in Skywalker-wrangling.  You intimidate him.”  Obi-Wan rolls up the shredded remains of Anakin’s sleeve and grimaces.  “You’ve made a mess of yourself again.”  He cups Anakin’s elbow in his left hand, stabilizing Anakin’s wrist between the thumb and middle finger of his right.  “Don’t fight me,” he warns.  “Or I’ll put you out faster than a _djem so_ Broken Boulder to the face – and then they’ll really be laughing at you.”  
  
Anakin can already feel him working, the Force gathering around his former master in ripples of Obi-Wan’s unique signature, a harmonious chiming Anakin would know anywhere, a liquid coolness caressing inflamed skin and pooling in his joints.  
  
Anakin drops his head back against the bulkhead, dizzy with relief despite his own protestations.  “You don’t have to do this,” he mutters.  
  
“Do what?” Obi-Wan _tsks_.  “Put up with you?  I quite agree.  This is a torment I choose for myself.”  
  
“Be such a mother hen.”  
  
It’s a long time before Obi-Wan says anything in response to that, and they sit in silence for a while, healing currents still pouring into Anakin’s carefully cradled arm.  Finally Obi-Wan sighs, the lengthy exhale softened somewhat by a sad little smile.  “Oh, Anakin,” he says, shaking his head.  “ _Padawan_.  Someday you will understand.”

*****

Obi-Wan breathes in time with the wind.  
  
That is all there is to hear out here.   Wind, and the sand shifting in its currents, twisting and twining across the ground in thin ribbons.  Uncountable grains of dust.  Uncountable lovers lost.    
  
Uncountable hearts, too, glowing defiantly in the darkness.  
  
A tiny lizard scuttles past his crossed legs.    
  
There is life in the desert.    
  
He can feel it, just out of his reach.  Everything he’d thought had been plucked from the fabric of existence, everyone he’d been sure had been blotted from the record, every living being he'd thought had been taken from him, stranding him in more than one kind of wasteland - they are all there, in the Light, just at the edges of his fingertips.  It is such a temptation, to burst from his self-imposed stillness, to howl, to pull them back to him as violently as they had been pulled away. 

But he must not grasp.  He waits, a patient vessel, for them to descend on him, for their old open hearts and open doors and open arms, for their gentle words and gentle hands and gentle voices, for every time one of them had told him they loved him, in word or in deed.    
  
Darkness encroaches on the entire galaxy, but he does not cower before it.  The Dark cannot worm its way inside of him unless he invites it, and he is too full up with love to make room for anything else.  
  
_I invite you_ , he tells the Light.  The Force swirls around him, hearing, accepting, waiting.  
  
They have not come to him yet.  But they will.  They are with the Force, and the Force is with him.    
  
When the time is right, they will work one last miracle here.  Because there is love still, even in the desert.

_I invite you_ , he repeats.  And he waits. 

 

 


End file.
